My Very Own
by Funky In Fishnet
Summary: Bucky Barnes is learning what he has once he wakes, trigger-free, in Wakanda. A visit from Sam brings a whole new line of learning into play.


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing._

 _ **Author Note:** Set after 'Captain America: Civil War.'_

* * *

 **MY VERY OWN**

Bucky has – two sets of jeans. Both are brand new; there are tags still attached to them. Both are dark blue, almost black.

One pair of lace-ups. The laces are black, the shoes are dark blue like the jeans.

Three t-shirts. One feels close to being tailored and two are loose and soft, even against his scars. He had scars too. The three t-shirts are two different shades of gray and an off-white. There's no symbols on them, nothing.

One button-down shirt. It's black with black buttons and is tailored to Bucky better than anything he's ever owned. HYDRA didn't care how anything fit, as long as he could wear it and complete his mission.

Two sets of boxers, two sets of briefs – gray and black. Three pairs of black socks.

One leather jacket. It's expensive. The zippers are too loud.

A pair of gray sweats. He wears them in bed and curls the sleeves over his fingers.

A pair of black gloves.

All of it is Bucky's. But it was all T'Challa's first. No, they weren't his. He gave the order and now Bucky has clothes. He also has food to eat and water to drink. He is not used to the having. For decades, all he had were orders and memories that they kept taking away from him until they weren't his anymore. All he had was the precipice road ahead.

He has a room – for now – where he sleeps and sleeps after waking up in Wakanda. When he's not sleeping, he looks out the window. He sees three different ways down to the ground and five sniper positions. He searches the ochre sky for birds. He frowns.

He looks at the folded squares of clothing, laid out on the floor in neat uniform rows. Memories overlay, back and forth and back again. He likes the colours better than the army's choices, he misses the way Mrs Rogers sewed up shirt tears with an extra stitch. He looks for a long time. Sometimes he touches curled fingers to a corner. No one takes them from him. He still watches them.

* * *

He has an apology and half-bow from the King of Wakanda. T'Challa owns a whole country. No, those aren't the words he uses. He says that he is looked to by a whole country. Bucky has memories of royalty and people who act like they are, who own people and places. T'Challa is different to most of them.

T'Challa wears tailored black clothing; suits and loafers. He isn't wearing a gun or any kind of weapon holster, but there's a sense of coiled power and animal grace about the younger king. A warrior no matter what crown he wears. He carries it all so lightly. Even when he'd carried vengeance, anger and grief, T'Challa had looked like he'd carried it all just as effortlessly. Perhaps it's another super power.

But Bucky knows how deep wounds reach – crevices and cracks that can be papered over by several lifetimes' training. Natalia has been a living example of that for decades. T'Challa could be another.

Crevices can be wedged open too. He could have killed Bucky, even though he'd found out the truth of Zemo, he'd also found the truth of Bucky. But he'd welcomed him instead.

So Bucky bows smoothly and says, "Thank you, Your Grace."

He is grateful. He doesn't know if he always will be. He knows he could ask and T'Challa would put him to sleep again. Honor is something else T'Challa carries easily, like a piece of his suit or a weapon to be unsheathed. No wonder he and Steve bonded. But Steve isn't here and T'Challa still speaks easily to Bucky, asking if he is comfortable, telling him about places he can spar, run and use weights, inviting him to share a meal. Bucky refuses the latter politely with another bow; T'Challa doesn't threaten or sound angry or disappointed. He nods and moves on, giving Bucky space he hasn't asked for but that feels like it's his too. He doesn't refuse it.

* * *

He has a new arm. It's made of smooth metal and moves as well as his right. He has memories of pain he can't connect to now, pain and impossibility and so much cold. He'd felt dizzy then, he remembers that. He doesn't remember flesh there, only stars and surety. It functions well; he can tell that the strength in his fingers is enough to crush a wrist. He remembers that. It is dexterous too, it can pluck hairs resting on a sleeve. He has a good arm.

He remembers that Steve didn't stare at the arm Stark took.

This arm doesn't have a star on it. Bucky checks regularly.

* * *

He has a man who shadows him whenever he leaves his rooms. No, not shadows, the man doesn't try to hide. T'Challa isn't insulting about it. He tells Bucky that a man will be with him at all times.

"Your face is familiar," T'Challa says simply. "One of my people with you sends a message just as clear."

Bucky doesn't need an explanation – he's been marked as protected, or at least considered important by the king of Wakanda. The man supplied used to be or still is a soldier, it shows in his every sparse movement. It draws tension through Bucky as nothing else in Wakanda has yet. That is Bucky's too. He cannot escape the tension, pulling him tighter at every glance from the man.

The man doesn't speak to Bucky. He watches him and he watches their surroundings constantly. Bucky watches him. The man will recognize all of that from his service, just like he'll know how Bucky tests every meal with a first careful bite. Bucky hides how his fingers curl and touch walls, how he savors the air in different quarters, how he lingers at some corners when he sees a smile or a set of eyes that remind him of things that aren't his anymore.

The man never falters and never loses Bucky. He isn't Hydra or SHIELD. Bucky gets used to him. He is determined to.

The man isn't a friend. He doesn't try to be. He is part of Wakanda and Bucky won't refuse a gift from T'Challa. It makes sense, even if it makes him tense.

* * *

He has roads. T'Challa says he can go wherever he likes within the city, though of course he will be watched. Of course. Bucky bows and thanks him. He thinks of killing the ruler of a place like this, he remembers blood bubbling and the man's last words and how Bucky hadn't deemed them relevant because the mission was complete.

He is not pushed out of the door, he isn't told to leave. It doesn't feel like an order or a trap. His instincts are good. He remembers them being good before – where the best food was, the best time. He remembers lining up shots through two different sets of eyes, breathing through the motion. He remembers fighting and winning.

He is being watched and every day he looks out of his rooms' window. There are still no birds he recognizes, no sound he is looking for. He wonders what it all feels like to touch.

He curls his fingers and breathes through each step. He ignores his guard, whose name he could know.

He begins to map the city with long daily walks. He leaves the building that has held him for, days, weeks? He walks and learns the feel of the sidewalks, the way the sun reflects off buildings and people, how the population talks, what they talk about, how they gesture. He will never blend in but he never stops looking. He once had the skill to disappear.

He walks until his feet and the backs of his knees ache. He can see the land beyond the city and he can see the carved panthers that guard and warn and tell stories he doesn't know. He stares at them, motionless, and doesn't see them blink.

He walks back to the building where his rooms are. One of his arms has been burned by the sun.

* * *

He has books. He doesn't to begin with. He finds them in the building's library – he'd been looking for the weight room T'Challa had told him about - and begins reading. A lot of them he remembers from time after missions and glimpses spark memories of reading what could be found when he and Steve had been commandos together. He doesn't remember enjoying reading. Things change.

He reads science-fiction – quietly amused at how he could stand in the place of many characters. Heroes. But that's Steve and Sam. He's the one waiting for the moment to strike them down and complete his mission. Was. He was the one.

When he thinks of Steve and Sam now, he smiles. He hides it from his honor guard.

He finds bookshops and finds that T'Challa has set up an account for him; to be accessed throughout this city. He knows it's his guard's nod that sees him buying anything. He refuses to look back. He folds lips over his teeth and doesn't smile.

He finds books he wants to buy. Books described as classics, books recommended by displays and posters, books whose covers are familiar but he doesn't know why. He has shelves in his room that begin to fill with books. He doesn't remember owning so many or wanting to. He counts them, over and over. He touches the spines.

He buys and reads newspapers, always seeking out news of Steve and Sam first. He tears free all stories featuring them he finds and folds the papers crisply. He opens them every day and rereads lines he has memorized. He doesn't want to forget this. There are other ways to program himself.

* * *

He has meals. They're provided in the building that is his base here. They are delivered to his room; trays with covered dishes and unopened bottles of water. There is a note from T'Challa telling Bucky that the kitchen doesn't specialize in Western meals but that many can be provided if he wishes for something particular. Bucky does not miss the kindness of the gesture.

The first it happens, he lifts lids from the dishes and enhales the rich smells. Nothing is too strongly flavoured, as though he is being tested or considered. He tastes everything carefully on his tongue first. He knows exactly how long he can go without eating before he stops functioning and he doesn't enjoy those memories. They are useful only. Just as he knows how long he can go without sleeping too, but he sleeps in Wakanda. That choice was made for him by his body. He thinks he would like to eat. The smells are good.

He drains the bottle of water and eats most of what is on the tray, eating slowly because he knows how it feels to retch from overeating after being starving for too long. He writes neatly on the back of T'Challa's note to say thank you for the food, he would eat more of that again if it's provided. He doesn't say he'd like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, that he'd like mac and cheese or _c_ _ârnați_ or _cozonac_. He eats what he's given.

He learns what he likes, what he doesn't. He eats everything anyway. One thing he's learned through two different lifetimes is you never know when the next meal will come.

When he ventures outside, he tries cafes and buys fruit and cooked sausage from markets. He tries one restaurant but only goes in when he can sit somewhere with a good vantage point toward all exits. He never finds a meal in Wakanda that he craves, not like _cozonac_ (the language coats his tongue and he wants sweetness and poppy seeds without blood this time) or the broth he remembers Mrs Rogers serving three nights a week and trying to make sure Stevie had more than her. Bucky did the exact same thing.

He wonders if Sam does the same now. Nah, he overheard Sam before, teasing Steve for how much he put away at dinner and didn't gain a pound, talking about Steve having another super power. Bucky smirks and checks the sky again. Nothing.

* * *

He has no warning. One day, he is reading a book in the building's library, and then his guard is shifting slightly to the left – someone important has arrived. There's T'Challa with his dora milaje, Bucky stands and bows briefly. T'Challa inclines his head in acceptance – Bucky knows from all he's gleaned that this is a respect not everyone is afforded and he makes sure T'Challa sees his gratitude. He won't misstep.

He's focused on that so he doesn't notice Sam, who is behind the dora milaje, out of uniform with a few days of beard growth that don't look right at all. He either needs a lot more or a lot less. Bucky's fingers curl tightly and his skin prickles. He's staring but Sam is staring too. It's searching, focused, a look Bucky's seen Sam aim at him before. Bucky's skin doesn't stop prickling. He doesn't try to smooth it away.

"You are welcome here for as long as you wish," T'Challa tells Sam who nods his thanks. "We have received no signals from your government."

So Sam got here under the radar and no one back home's any wiser. Steve must still be there; distracting everyone. He's good at that. Bucky thinks he might be smiling; Sam's expression is doing something that makes Bucky's skin keep prickling.

T'Challa leaves the library, as does Bucky's guard. Bucky's lips twitch into a brief smirk. There's no one but Bucky and Sam now. They're surrounded by books.

Sam's taking a good look at Bucky's newest arm. Bucky doesn't flex it or say _it doesn't itch anymore_ or _I know, there should be a star_. But Sam's got a way of smiling that tells Bucky he's thinking about the star part. Bucky doesn't smile back, even if his mouth twitches again.

Sam is here.

"I swear I never thought I'd see Captain America mope," Sam starts with, with a kind of put-upon sigh that's also inviting Bucky to maybe laugh with him, like his eyes are laughing too. "But with you gone but still here, it's like he wants to keep checking the oven to see if dinner's done."

Bucky's eyebrows draw down at the analogy, "I'm dinner?"

Sam's eyes get a little smoky and Bucky's lips twitch again and Sam's eyes go quickly clear like he thinks he's being had. Bucky thinks of searching the sky and his fingers are twitching too but they stay curled up. Everything else is calm.

"Sure, you're my momma's casserole right now," Sam says at last.

That sounds...Bucky doesn't know what it sounds like and Sam's smile has gone pleased into smug and that makes Bucky's eyes narrow and before he can speak, Sam glances around the room with clear purpose.

"So what's good here?"

Bucky hands Sam the book he was just reading – he won't ever let his guard see the titles of his books. He keeps looking at Sam's face though. His fingers are desperate.

* * *

He has...he doesn't know. Sam is here, he's given the room next to Bucky's. He wants to spend time with Bucky. He doesn't push open Bucky's door without asking, he always knocks. Sometimes he arrives when lunch or dinner does. He always knocks when Bucky's in the library, giving Bucky a whole couch to himself. Bucky makes sure he only tears out newspaper stories with Sam's name when he's very alone. He hides the book that holds them under a t-shirt. It feels important.

Sam doesn't fill the space like Steve does everywhere he goes, in and out of uniform. It's more like Sam's waiting and Bucky enjoys watching him wait.

From the way Sam smiles, his mouth ticking up in irrepresible (irritating, irrepresible) amusement, he's enjoying watching Bucky watch him. That mouth, it's a challenge too. Bucky can feel it. His hand contracts into a fist. The challenge is there when Sam teases him for his black and gray wardrobe and for not running endlessly like Steve does every morning. Bucky smirks at the image of Steve running and running, Sam trying to keep up. Sam looks like he knows what Bucky's thinking and he's not happy about it. He keeps talking to Bucky though, keeps turning up.

He spends a lot of time with T'Challa. He's brought messages from Steve and Natasha and there's a lot of discussion about how far Wakanda should go in this fight. Steve doesn't want to drag T'Challa and his country into something that could damage them irreparably, like it has the Avengers. Yeah, that's Steve. Bucky's fingers clench, even as he smiles.

Sam spars with T'Challa too. Sometimes, the door isn't locked and Bucky watches, his eyes fixed on Sam's jumping agile form. He moves differently to Steve, there's hints of time spent with Steve though and with Natasha too, maybe even Barton. But there's a solid determination to every movement, a surety of follow-through that's all Sam. T'Challa is always grace and strength.

Sam sweats and his skin gets slick. He only looks at Bucky when he's taking a break, a drink of water, time to stretch and prepare for the next try. The challenge is always there, in the way he looks at Bucky. It's still smoky too. Bucky feels hungry, although he's just eaten.

Every chance he gets, he watches Sam.

* * *

He is learning. He has been since waking in Wakanda for good – his room, the sky, the city, the people, the printed word (fiction and every syllable of Sam and Steve), the touch and taste of everything else. Now he's learning Sam.

How he takes his coffee.

How he turns the pages of books.

How he tells stories about Steve and isn't afraid to rag on him, with a tone twin to the one Bucky remembers wrapping around words couched with _Stevie._

How he looks from every angle.

The way he looks at Bucky like he's learning Bucky too.

Sam is here because Steve asked him to be. And because he wants to be too. Bucky has learned that much; from words, body language and the obvious other. It makes Bucky feel smoky and his fingers clench. He raises an eyebrow when his looking locks with Sam's. Sam raises an eyebrow back, challenging, amused. Smoky.

They're sat on opposite ends of the couch in the library. Just them. Bucky's guard has stopped attending him so much. Sam isn't looking away, his gaze is steady and he...he isn't going to move. Bucky knows how Sam looks when he's about to do that. He's waiting. It could be Steve's influence but no...no, this is _Sam._

And Bucky's still hungry.

So he moves. He'll get a better view from closer up, his hands are clenched because he still wants to know how Sam feels – the rasp of his beard, his skin, his smile. Sam watches him as Bucky gets so close that their legs touch. Bucky pauses there, getting used to that feel. That's Sam's leg, solid and strong. He's seen what Sam can do, fought beside him.

Sam puts down his book and trails a hand across the back of the couch behind Bucky. His mouth is almost amused, like he's daring Bucky on. But there's encouragement too. His eyes are still smoky. Bucky narrows his and Sam's mouth bends.

Bucky kisses it.

* * *

He has Sam's mouth, which kisses slowly and thoroughly and makes Bucky want to inch closer. He has the press of Sam's leg against his and then Sam's hand on his, like a question, like the choice is Bucky's. He looks at Sam, how the smokiness has caught light, and smirks because he likes watching how Sam's expression changes and knowing it's because of him.

He examines Sam's hand – calluses and scars because Sam's a soldier and strong because he's Sam. He's strong enough to handle Steve and to want to be this close to Bucky. Bucky's hands destroyed Sam's wings. Sam is still here. He must watch the sky too.

Bucky kisses him again and trails his mouth to Sam's jaw, tasting the hair that's almost a beard, like it's learning how to exist too. Sam makes a sound in his throat and Bucky presses closer, hunting the noise. Sam's hand stays in his, tightening, like it wants to move. Sam has excellent control.

Bucky smiles against Sam's skin and bites, just a little. Sam groans.

"I hate you."

Bucky has that. He presses even closer, his body an open eager invitation as he drags on Sam's arm so he's now surrounded by Sam, Sam's hands touching him, _learning._ It's better than reading, better than watching, better than searching the sky.

Sam dips to kiss Bucky's cheek, then another, an ear, a sliver of neck. Sam's smirk is tracing across Bucky's skin. Bucky hates him too.

Bucky's hands are curling differently now. They hate Sam too. They, and all the rest of Bucky, want to learn to hate him more.

 _-the end_


End file.
